


soul of man, fallow

by bloodletter



Category: There Will Be Blood
Genre: Age Difference, Antagonism, Bad Dirty Talk, Being a Dad Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Choking, Daddy Issues, Dubious Consent, Dysfunctional Family, Humiliation, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15373779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodletter/pseuds/bloodletter
Summary: Daniel made him a man. He was still a boy in those days, before the stranger came down from out of the hills and scooped their lives up in the palm of his hand. Eli was still preaching in the first church, the one in whose pews he’d sat between his mother and Paul since before he can remember. It was play-acting, even once he came to lead it. He had not yet got the measure of the devil.





	soul of man, fallow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



> Thanks to Shadow for the beta and to October for being so encouraging during the writing of this fic; you were so much help.
> 
> Heed tags. List of content warnings in end note.

He had caught the earliest of the morning trains south, so by the time they enter the Tehachapis it's not much past midday. It had taken long enough to get used to the air in China, the way it clung like molasses—now, in reverse, his face feels like it’s cracking, his lips peeling more with every mile the train eats up on the way south from San Francisco. The railroad churns through mountain passes and the view from the window gets more and more barren, even the trees thinning out, until they pass through the kind of brown hill country where each person feels like the last one on Earth. The train kicks up dust, which mixes with the black coal clouds and rises to mute the sun as California rushes past, as arid and unforgiving as the day he left.

The track passes through Fresno, Tulare, Bakersfield, and innumerable gold, fruit and oil towns in various stages of boom and bust before it crosses the final county line separating Eli from his place of birth. Unthinkingly, he runs a thumb over the palm of his other hand.

It's the last leg of a long journey begun in Guangdong, carried on through Hong Kong, and then aboard a steamship across the Pacific. He had few material possessions accumulated since he'd made the journey the first time; of the new pieces, there were a few souvenirs for Ruth and Mary, some pamphlets and tracts he'd authored in more recent years, and the letter, in a tight and sloping hand:

> _Dear Brother,_
> 
> _Little Boston, May 20 1919_
> 
> _Things have turned for the worse since I last wrote and I am very sorry to tell you that Mother was called to the Lord yesterday evening. The pneumonia lingered and though she seemed better for a while the cough came back and that was that. Father was not so bad before but I am worried now. Please come as quick as you can._
> 
> _Check the cables at the terminal in San Francisco. We will wire if anything changes._
> 
> _“And the ransomed of the Lord shall return, and come to Zion with songs and everlasting joy upon their heads: they shall obtain joy and gladness, and sorrow and sighing shall flee away…”_
> 
> _Your Sister,_
> 
> _Ruth_

These had been joined as of this morning by a telegram, dated a day and a half ago:

> _ELI SUNDAY_
> 
> _FATHER PASSED AWAY THURSDAY FUNERAL MONDAY NEED YOUR HELP ALL OUR LOVE_
> 
> _MARY_

When he arrives, no one is waiting for him at the station, but he wasn’t expecting there to be. Ruth, he knows, from the various semi-frequent but impersonal letters exchanged, married as of last spring and lives with her husband, an oil worker of Arkansas extraction, in a small house on the other side of town. Mary’s still at the farmhouse, and there was no way for her to know which train would bring him in.

It takes about half an hour to make his way out on foot from the station to the ranch. Though the air is dry, here, instead of humid, it still feels thick against the skin, suffocating in its flammability, laden as it is with every kind of fume the wells produce. Even so, the eye can see quite far and clear out across the hills, and the derricks tower across the slopes ahead visible for miles. Daniel has remade the place in his image.

The house itself cannot be seen until he crests the final slope running down to what was formerly the farm. Now, the house sits atop of land they haven’t owned in years, its worth nothing more than the sum total of nails and still-intact wood that holds it together. The goats’ shelter has a new roof: this is the extent of visible changes since he left it behind for the mission.

He makes it almost inside the doorway before there’s a sign anyone’s home. He hears a clattering of small, booted feet across floorboards, sees a shock of blonde hair, and then Mary stands before him, a foot taller than he remembers, not a girl anymore but not yet a woman. The arms of her dress are too short. Her face, open and guileless as ever.

She opens her mouth as if about to say something, closes it, opens it again. “Oh. Eli.”

“Mary,” he says, and she hesitates for a moment more before running up to him and clutching at his sleeve as if she’s still a little girl. She’s not much shorter than he is, now, and she rests her forehead against his shoulder for a moment. He rests his hand over her shoulder-blade, bony even through clothes, and he can feel her shake, though she doesn’t cry.

Through the window, he can see Ruth, seated at the table, look up from a stack of papers and start. She hesitates, for a moment, as if seeing a ghost, and then stands. In the distance, the drills continue their slow and steady motion.

 

 

 

He takes the seat at the head of the table now. After a moment of visible hesitation, Ruth's husband, who made his way over not long after Eli arrived, takes Eli’s old place at the other end. They pass rice and beans around the table, which seems over-large to only seat four, and make perfunctory small talk about the rate of the derricks’ production (slowing, but still steady) and the state of their chickens (ailing).

The farm is doing as poorly as ever, but he hadn’t expected anything else. He can't remember a time they weren't in drought. There were few good years, even before the drilling begun. Abel came all the way from Michigan to stake out the poorest soil in the county.

When a lull arrives, Eli asks, “When is the service?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. At the old church plot.”

“The same one?”

“The same.”

“I will perform the service.”

“The reverend has already agreed—”

"We will tell the reverend that he no longer has to trouble himself," he says, and Ruth’s spoon falters in its journey from her bowl to her mouth. After a moment, she nods.

He looks over at the husband, willing him to say something, but the man looks sharply away.

“Mary,” Eli begins, and she looks up from her food. “Are you still organizing the church picnic?”

“Yes,” she replies, and the line of her shoulders visibly relaxes. “It’s coming up in a few weeks.”

“That is lovely to hear.” Something approaching a smile crosses her face.

“Mary’s been filling in for H.W.’s translator when he’s been away,” Ruth adds, and a deep flush crosses Mary’s face. “Not for too much longer, though,” Ruth adds, and Eli’s brows crease.

“Why not?”

“Plainview’s clearing out of town,” the husband says, and Eli’s head whips around.

“What?”

The man takes another bite and talks around it. “He’s taking his boy and moving to Los Angeles. Leaving Hamilton here to supervise.”

Blood rushes to his head. A multitude of questions race through his mind, and the one that comes out of his mouth is. “When?”

“Oh, not long from now,” the man says, and Eli’s grip tightens around the handle of his spoon. “He’s got crews out packing their things.”

On his left side, Mary looks heartbroken. On his right, Ruth eyes him warily. Eli sets down his cutlery, and leans back in his chair.

He ought to feel relieved—how many times has he wished the earth could open and swallow Daniel where he stood? And yet.

The others finish their meals in silence, Mary clears the dishes, and Ruth turns to him. “Eli, there’s something else,” she begins. “I’m sorry, you must be tired, but—”

He turns to her with a small shake of the head. “What is it?”

“The will,” she says.

He blinks. “Is it here?”

She turns back to the small stack of papers she was sifting through when he entered, extracts a single sheet, and passes it to him. It’s clearly years old. The ink is faded, and the edges have been gnawed away by a passing rodent or insect.

> _**IN THE NAME OF GOD, AMEN** _
> 
> _I,_ Abel Sunday _, of_ Little Boston  , in the County of  Isabela , State of  California , being of sound mind and memory and considering the uncertainty of this frail and transitory life, do therefore make, ordain, publish and declare this to be my last WILL AND TESTAMENT:
> 
> _FIRST, I order and direct that my execut_ or _hereinafter named, pay all my just debts and funeral expenses as soon after my decease as conveniently may be._
> 
> _SECOND, After the payment of such funeral expenses and debts, I give, devise, and bequeath_
> 
> To my beloved Children, all my Property both Personal and Real Estate, to be divided share and share alike. Namely,
> 
> Eli Sunday, Paul Sunday, Ruth Sunday, and Mary Sunday.
> 
> _LASTLY, I make, constitute and appoint_ My son Eli Sunday _, to be Execut_ or _of this my last Will and Testament, hereby revoking all former wills by me made._
> 
> _IN WITNESS WHEREOF, I have hereunto subscribed my name and affixed my seal, the_ 3rd. _day of_ February _in the year of our Lord, one thousand nine hundred_ ten.

 

He reads it once, goes back to the top of the page, reads it again. Sets it down on the tabletop. “You’re sure this is the most recent one?”

“There aren’t any others we can find.”

He picks it back up, sets it down again. “Has he—have you heard from Paul?”

“No.”

“Do you think he’ll come?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t even know if he’s still alive.” She speaks evenly, dispassionately. Not for the first time since he boarded the portbound train he wonders what would have happened had he stayed in this house for any longer, had he eaten another meal at this table, surrounded by his mother’s silence and his sisters’ averted gazes and Abel’s placid face, which never changed, even in anger. Eli has said grace at every meal since he was thirteen years old, and the last time he was struck by his father was before that. Things were different for the others; he’s always known this, but it felt out of his reach, somehow, the last realm where he couldn’t supercede.

In a lower tone, she adds, “We weren’t sure if you were going to come back.”

He turns to her, places a hand on her shoulder, a gesture he’s performed countless times. “It was time,” he says. “There are just as many sinners at home as anywhere else.”

 _Real estate, to be shared and shared alike._ Simple lines in the sand drawn by a simple man.

He looks at it one more time, then folds the piece of paper into even thirds and presses it into Ruth’s hand. “Thank you. I will take care of this.” He pauses for a few long seconds and then looks back at her. “You need your rest. I’ll walk the two of you home. We could all use the fresh air.”

 

 

 

 

Even from a distance Eli notices that Daniel’s made additions since last Eli was here, but the house itself is the same. Even though it’s grown upward and outward somewhat over the years, Daniel’s hardly fleshed it out. Even in the settling dusk, men swarm around it, loading boxes and furniture into trucks—simple things, innocuous; a rocking chair, a bed frame. There are a few furrowed glances in his direction, but otherwise the bustle is such that no one pays him much attention. None of the faces are familiar, though they all have the same worn-down look, weathered from years of hard labour and the weight of Daniel’s long shadow.

The door is propped open with a stone. The boards of the porch creak underfoot. It’s a shack, really. Not for the first time, Eli considers how much money Daniel must have mouldering in a vault somewhere in San Francisco, and he’s spent the last ten years in a homesteader’s cabin withal.

From his position staring out at the backyard, Daniel turns his head, and there’s no clear sign of recognition, just several slow blinks, as if willing his vision to clear. His expression is one of distracted intensity; it must be the way he looks at all the inferiors he surrounds himself with. Eli realizes, delightedly, that he’s managed to take Daniel by surprise.

“I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

The moment of recognition is clear. “Eli.”

“I didn’t realize you were making your way so soon. It’s a blessing, you know, that I came in to town today. We could have missed each other entirely.”

“Yes, what a hardship that would have been.” Daniel’s voice remains steady, near-reasonable in tone, though his pitch slides around more than Eli remembers. Age and alcohol have done their work, he notices with satisfaction.

“ _Los Angeles_. What a change from Little Boston, isn’t it? When do you leave?”

“Soon.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard, but our father’s funeral is tomorrow afternoon and—”

“Sooner than the funeral.”

“Well, now, that is a shame. We will miss you there. I know the members of the church always appreciate your presence.” Eli picks his way across the floorboards carefully, not trusting them all to hold his weight, and hopes his cautiousness comes across as surety. “And what of your son? What of H.W.?”

Daniel’s brows knit together, and he takes his time before replying. He hasn’t yet gotten Eli’s measure. When he does respond, he plays it at face value: “H.W. is coming with me for a time, and then he may come back to help with the drilling, as business allows.”

“I’m glad to hear that. My sister Mary is quite fond of him.” It’s not a large house. Eli’s natural impulse towards gesture has brought him most of the way towards Daniel, who seems fixed in place, unwilling to either come closer or move further away from him.

“I’m aware.”

Five thousand dollars plus interest. He could bargain, now, make his case, but he has other questions that want answers: why _now_ is the time Daniel has chosen to leave, to abandon this place that seems to have brought him no pleasure despite his voracious conquest of it.

Behind his back, Eli clenches his fist and then relaxes it, the muscles going soft and fingers uncurling themselves like the peel sliding off an orange.

Through the doorway, Eli hears the sound of boots on a truck bed, and then the motor ignites and pulls away, back to town. He wonders if this is the first time they've been alone in a room together. Not that it makes much of a difference; men like them are always speaking to an audience, whether visible or not.

“Why did you come here, Eli? Did you cross the ocean for this? To invade my home and… badger me?” Deceptively calm. Beneath the mustache, Daniel’s mouth is drawn in a heavy, unyielding line.

Eli swallows, against his own will, but remains in place. “Isn’t it enough to pay a call on an old friend?”

He can see the tension in Daniel’s jaw, but even so, the man finally moves from his place by the back door. Though his voice may have retained its timbre, it’s clear that Daniel’s walk has gotten worse. Each step visibly pains him, yet he still stalks around the room like oil spreading over skin. He moves like something inhuman in its deliberation. He talks the same way: like he's never in his life been in trouble that he couldn't get out of.

Neither of them walk directly toward each other, instead approaching in a curling, spiralling path, like two vultures above the same prize.

“I’m not your friend, Eli.”

“I don’t know, Daniel, I think we’ve seen our share of good and bad times, together, haven’t we? I’m not sure what else we could be.”

It’s true: Daniel made him a man. He was still a boy in those days, before the stranger came down from out of the hills and scooped their lives up in the palm of his hand. Eli was still preaching in the first church, the one in whose pews he’d sat between his mother and Paul since before he can remember. It was play-acting, even once he came to lead it. He had not yet got the measure of the devil.

Daniel took everything from them, except the church, yet when Eli thinks of his life could be had Daniel never come to Little Boston he sees nothing but dirt farms and preaching out of shacks and his father’s slow, cowish stare across the table.

Perhaps he came here to remind himself that Daniel _is_ a man, frail and fallible like the rest of them. They’ve almost met at the centre of the room: the eye of the hurricane, and yes, it does feel still.

“You needn’t play the part, here, Eli. We both know what you are. I know what you came for.”

He’s close enough to him to make out the stubble across Daniel’s chin. A succession of lunatic ideas cross Eli’s mind; perhaps it’s the long time spent in travel, but it feels as if he could do anything, anything at all. If he turns his back on Daniel in a moment like this, he won't make it out in one piece. The only way forward is through—

“Why don’t you enlighten me, then,” he says, and lays a showy, benevolent hand on Daniel’s forearm.

Daniel moves very fast, then, knocks Eli’s hand aside and grasps his throat. On reflex, Eli begins to suck in an enormous breath, but his airflow is cut off before he gets very far.

Daniel presses him backwards, walking them across the room, Eli just managing to avoid tripping over his own feet, until his back hits one of the walls. Daniel’s eyes, unholy and blue, pin him in place. He feels his own sweat soaking through layers of cotton and wool, his hips rutting up against Daniel’s thighs against his will even as all sensation gets dull and black at the edges. He coughs and thrashes, hands scrabbling madly, and Daniel doesn't let up until Eli is on the edge of unconsciousness. Eli gets in half a heaving breath before Daniel resumes the pressure, crowds him in against the wall.

He is Jacob, locked in strife, but Eli will not come out the other side with a blessing. There is no angel, here. Instead, he’s faced with an Old Testament king, Ahab or Nebuchadnezzar, larger than life and bent on bringing ruin on the prophet of the Lord.

Eli swallows, and the tendons in his throat push against Daniel’s palm.

It’s too dim to really see, but Daniel inclines his head just enough for the dregs of light seeping through the window from the setting sun to hit his eyes. For a second they flash, preternaturally bright and savage, until he shifts back out of the light and they go dark once more.

Eli’s head falls back limp, his throat exposed. The pain is useful. Sin is easier to bear when it brings suffering with it. He was tempted to this; the devil has seen in him an adversary and put these temptations in his path, but repentance has no meaning if there is no sin. Daniel is his adversary, and he will be overcome, but first—they will have this. They must. He sees no way around it.

Eli exhales, and as it passes through his abused throat the sound crackles in the dry air like dust on a phonograph.

"You came back for your inheritance, didn’t you." There’s something purifying in the strength of Daniel’s hatred. It sends a shiver through him to hear. "Are you here to pick the house clean, like you've always wanted?"

Denials and protestations hover on the tip of his tongue, but he's distracted by the feeling of hardness against his leg, unmistakable even through layers of cotton. It's not the first time. Years ago, Daniel held him down in the mud, nearly choked him in the wet mess of tailings, and Eli hated him with a strength that hasn't abated since. Hated that Daniel could do that to him, force him down to crawl in the dirt like a low thing, and come so close to giving him things he’d never thought to ask for but, now that the thought existed, was enraged not to have.

He has fought not to imagine this tableau for the better part of ten years, and for what? Time passes, and here he is again, desire coursing through him like a hound that’s smelled blood. Shame floods through his mouth along with saliva. Though Eli struggles against Daniel’s hold, some part of him is waiting, ear pressed to the glass, to see how far this will go, just how bad it will get.

For the second time in their acquaintance, Eli feels the force of Daniel's arousal against him, and this time, he doesn't let the opportunity pass him by.

What's more, Daniel seems disconcerted by it. The strength of his grip falters, briefly, when Eli pushes back against him, as if he hasn't realized until now that his body is anything but an elaborate machine, a system of ropes and pistons and menace.

"Is this how it was with your wife, Daniel?" Eli whispers. "Did H.W. get his start this way?"

This earns Eli a sharp, shocking grip of his jaw in Daniel's hand, fingers pressing at the corners to force him to open his mouth and then three of them thrust inside. He splutters, tries to force them back out, to no avail. All it earns him is contact between his tongue and Daniel's fingers: lean, hard, heavy. They’re dirty, filmy, and the taste bears out the years of crude oil stored up under each jagged nail, an odd amalgamation of earth and chemical. Between the taste and the rough way they jerk against the back of his throat, it threatens to make him gag.

The look in Daniel’s eye is as if—as if he’s watching Eli’s head roast on a spit and thinking that he likes the smell.

He can’t resist the impulse to take hold of Daniel’s hair with one hand, not to pull, really, just to feel it through his fingers, coarse and dark as the wing of a bird of ill omen. Daniel smacks his hand away, and twists his arm, sudden and brutal. “No, Eli, no you don’t.”

The pain is intense, and Eli cries out despite himself, but he also sees that the sudden motion has cost Daniel. Pain tightens his face for a few moments before he schools it into another mask of ghoulish patience.

Daniel seems almost at a loss for what happens next; he seems taken aback by his own arousal, as if not sure what to do with it. Eli bites down on the two fingers still in his mouth, just to try and extract a response out of him, something to speed this along—he has already been here too long. The sun is creeping down below the hills. He has places to be, he thinks to himself, vaguely.

The arm still gripping Eli’s twists, and he’s spun around, braced with his head against the wall. For all Daniel has an inch or two on him in height, at most, he’s boxed in. He has no idea how he’d get out if he wanted to.

Daniel retrieves the fingers still in his mouth and fumbles with Eli’s trousers, shoving them halfway down his thighs, and then going back to unbuckle himself.

Eli’s skin jumps, flinching ahead of any contact, like his body knows where this is going while his mind is still at a loss. It’s not that he doesn’t understand the mechanics. It’s just disconcerting, the feeling of being so yoked to his weak flesh and its inexplicable wants.

He is in danger. The fact is oddly uncompelling.

"I have to conduct—a service—tomorrow, Daniel, be careful—"

"Oh, careful. Yes, Eli, I'll be careful." His voice is so close to his ear, pitched so low it couldn't be heard from across the room. "Wouldn't want you anything less than decent for Abel's resting. It's a serious occasion. I know how much you _cherished_ and _respected_ the man."

Eli let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. "Well, Daniel, I knew you’d understand, being such an authority on fatherhood."

He can hear Daniel's teeth clench together, at that, and he twists Eli's wrist behind his back with almost enough force to dislocate his shoulder. The skin of his forearm is raw, what he'd have called an Indian burn when he was a child; now, it's just the grip of a man who, unlike Paul or his sisters, Eli couldn't throw off if he tried.

He feels resurrected by the fear, the stark immediacy of it, the curling impulse in his limbs to make for high ground pitted against heady excitement, like the feeling one gets when they look out over a high peak and wonder whether they'd survive the fall.

The sensation he’s waiting for never comes; instead of Daniel pushing at him, he just feels the length of Daniel’s cock pushing back and forth between his thighs. With the way he moves against him, the roughness of it, it’s like he could be fucking him in earnest—though, in a way, Daniel is winning over him even more like this. There would be more in it for him if Daniel actually were to sodomize him, instead of just use him this way, so carnal yet insubstantial.

He braces his forehead against the glass, struggling to keep his balance while Daniel keeps his wrists pinned with one hand and grasps Eli’s hip with the other. There are sounds coming out of Eli’s mouth he’s never heard before. Even in the throes of the spirit, he’s never sounded like that. Daniel’s sweat and his own mingle to run down his neck.

For all Daniel seems to move with caution, the exertion obvious in every creaking motion, it's over rather quickly. His thrusts become erratic, his breath harsh and uneven, and there’s little warning but the momentary clenching of fingernails into Eli’s skin before Daniel climaxes against him. Daniel emits a sharp sound, almost pained, and then he turns Eli back around by the arm, pushes Eli’s back against the wall, covers his mouth with a viselike hand, and growls, “Come on, then. Finish it.”

Eli fights to regain his balance, held up as he is solely by Daniel’s weight against him. His limbs dangle out at coltish angles.

“What are you waiting for? I’m not going to do it for you. Come on, Eli, you know how.”

When he reaches down with his free hand, he can feel Daniel’s seed on the inside of his own thighs, on the underside of his cock. It sends an electrical current up his spine, and it’s not so hard at all, once he begins, to touch himself in the scant free space between them.

No doubt this is meant to be a punishment: to shame him, as Daniel seems to have been. What Daniel doesn’t realize is that without anyone else to witness, there’s only the two of them with the evidence to damn each other, and instead of shame—not instead of, but overpowering it—is a sense of vindication. _Yes,_ Eli thinks, even as he follows Daniel’s orders, debases himself as he never has, not with any of the nameless men overseas: _yes, Daniel, you’ve been hungry for this, too._

It’s never been as good with anyone else, not that there have been many. There’s no comparison. Beneath heavy brows, Daniel looks at him with all of the disgust in the world, looks right through him, into the heart of him, says, “You need to be put down. Like a dog,” and Eli’s orgasm tears through him, leaves him feeling hollow, like a shell left behind when the mussel is gone.

Immediately, Daniel steps back, leaving Eli to stumble for balance, bracing himself against the wall with weak knees. Eli hurriedly tries to make himself look decent, knowing full well that his pants, at the very least, are unsalvageable.

"Get out now, if you know what's good for you." Daniel looks away, brushes the back of his hand over his forehead. “If I ever see your face again, you’ll pay a dearer price than this.”

Eli pauses for just a moment in the doorway, casts a look behind him: Daniel’s face is still turned away, but the line of his back is hard, coiled as ever.

"Safe travels, Daniel."

 

 

 

 

Eli picks his way along the dirt road, his eyes slow to adjust to the dark, but he’s thankful for it, thankful that what they’ve done won’t be immediately obvious to anyone who passes him by. His limbs are weak. He remembers belatedly to watch for snakes in the sand around his feet.

It's not a large town, but after dark the walk back to what is still nominally known as the Sunday Ranch seems long, so he runs through prospective eulogies while he makes his way. It's coming up on ten years behind the pulpit, now, and he's spoken at burials many times before, but Eli can't recall what he said as they put Joe Gunda in the ground. That day feels a lifetime away. Before he knew what sin really was, before he knew how to fear what lies on the other side of death.

Eli hasn't spoken of his Father and meant Abel in many years. God is a better one, as much as he may take his time before answering calls. God doesn't act against the interests of his children.

There are doctor’s bills, and an outstanding balance at the general store which has been slowly but surely accruing as long as he could remember. A smooth word here, a house visit to an ailing mother there—those things will deal with themselves.

The house: what can they get for the house? The burial plot is already paid for, a family’s worth in the burial ground of the old church, the first pulpit he ever took: enough room for six, assuming they were content with being tucked close in together, and nothing in life indicated they expected anything otherwise. More room than ever, now that one of them has chosen to make his own way in the world and damn the rest of them.

A light still burns inside. He can see it through the window when he approaches the house. The chickens are all put away, the two remaining goats under their hanging, seemingly content with their lot; these can all be sold, and before too long, he’s certain. As he comes closer, he can make out Mary, head bent over a book in front of the candle, blonde hair lit up in the warm light. Suddenly, the memory of he and Paul by the same window, bent over the only Bible they had, eking out the words by the last of the daylight, comes back to him. Paul was always the slower. Eli was left waiting, the corner of the next page held between thumb and forefinger, for him to catch up.

He lets himself in, tells her to get to sleep. The house is silent but for the yawning thuds of the derricks in the distance. She’s got a room to all her own, now, the place where the four of them used to sleep. He takes their parents’ room, the smallest in the house, largely filled out by the one rickety bed. The sheets look freshly laundered, and he falls asleep as soon as he can pull the soiled clothes off of himself.

He dreams a dream he’s had before, though not for many years: Daniel, but taller, thinner, cast in shadow and moving more like a spider than he’s ever done in life, looms over him. His own body is frozen in place. Daniel reaches out and seizes his right hand, bends Eli’s fingers backward, exposes his palm like the belly of a crab, and he brings the burning end of a lit cigarette in close enough to it that Eli feels it start to go through his skin and burn a hole in his palm. It’s agonizing; he tries to twitch, struggle against Daniel’s hold, but try as he might he still can’t make himself move, and Daniel leans in closer to him, whispers without speech, _Isn't this what you wanted, Eli? Proof of the spirit working in you?_

He wakes early to the sight of a red dawn through the window, and checks his palm instinctively, just to be sure. He’s not sure if he feels relief or disappointment to see it unblemished.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for dubiously consensual sex, canon-typical abusive family dynamics, non-negotiated physical violence (including choking) during sex, hand trauma in a dream sequence, and general canon-typical psychological warfare that hits innocent bystanders in the crossfire.


End file.
